We’re bottlenecked in traffic crawling
over the hill. You know it’s a wreck
or traffic stop and we’re all rubber-
necking, kissing misfortune, a morbid
at borders lined with concertina wire,
a stream of refugees dammed, damned
to get away from atrocity in-
to squalid internment camps, lives of no-
thing streaming on the Internet
and we’re looking, peeping through
the window of our screens.
It’s a bottle-
neck at Sharm el-Sheikh, and we come
back for more. Was it an accident or a bomb?